


Evidence of Things Unseen

by vegarin



Category: Daredevil (TV), Iron Fist (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Luke Cage (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 07:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12030900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegarin/pseuds/vegarin
Summary: The Hand attacks the police station.Spoilers for The Defenders.





	Evidence of Things Unseen

When the power cuts out, Foggy is in the middle of preparing for a deposition scheduled for next week, determinedly refusing to entertain the possibility that there may not _be_ a next week. There’s a steady, familiar rhythm in navigating LexisNexis looking for relevant cases and conducting due diligence, a semblance of routine normalcy that he can impose on the current state of panicked chaos. Sure, Daredevil, Jessica Jones and Luke Cage may have been issued an all-out threat so serious that their loved ones are sequestered together in a police station, but the existence of such a threat doesn’t make Foggy’s opposing counsel from Lockhart  & Gardner become any less devious, nor would it make Jeri grow a heart and _not_ dump more files on his desk the moment he returns to the office.

But in the abrupt darkness that follows, Foggy finds it suddenly difficult not to entertain the possibility that the deposition prep may have been, after all, a waste of time.

“Uh,” says Malcolm, a friend of Jessica Jones’s, from the far corner of the office, “what just happened?”

Foggy can feel Karen tense next to him. The reddish tint of the emergency lights from the corridor outsides filters through the half-closed venetian shades, casting a purple glow over her face, over everything. “I’m sure—“ Foggy starts, though there’s nothing in this situation that he is sure _of_ , “the backup generator will kick in soon. Like, any minute now.”

The emergency lights flicker once, twice, before dying off.

“Well _,_ crap,” Claire murmurs, as everything is enveloped in complete darkness.

Foggy vehemently agrees with her sentiment. There are movements outside, hurried steps and shouts. He can see the beams of flashlights from right outside the office, bobbing and weaving, leaving long shadows.

One of them stops at their door, which opens to reveal Detective Knight with another flashlight.

“Everyone okay?” she asks. There are echoes of yes—some shaky, some steady—and she nods. “You should all stay calm.”

Foggy fights the desire to point out that such a statement usually has the opposite effect. She rounds the corner of the desks to reach a wall panel behind him. “Another breaker should be right here."

When she pulls the lever, the emergency lights flickers on again, leaving them once again in a dim purplish glow. Everyone lets out the breath they’ve been holding.

“What’s going on, Detective?” asks Trish Walker, the famous radio host who also happens to be a friend of Jessica Jones’s.

“We don’t know yet.” Detective Knight’s jaw is set in a grim line as she pulls out her sidearm. “Stay here, all of you.”

“Where would we _possibly_ go?” Foggy asks, rhetorically than anything else, and locks the door after she leaves.

There’s one long drawn out moment when everyone looks at each other’s grey face and cannot find anything to say.

“My phone’s got no reception,” Trish says first, and there’s determined, controlled casualness in her familiar, radio-voice. “Anyone has a better luck?”

That prompts them to action. The short answer is, as expected, a no. “The landline is also out,” says Karen, putting the receiver back on the cradle.

“Of course it is. Somehow, I’m not at all surprised,” says Claire, sounding a lot calmer than Foggy feels.

Next to her, her friend Colleen silently reaches for the katana. Apparently, whether he likes it or not, this is a thing that happens in Foggy’s life now—being around people who willingly carry swords with them at all times just in case of emergency, like how one would with an extra phone charger. It’s alarming how _alarmingly_ reassuring her katana seems at this moment. Maybe once you’ve been in similar situations often enough, you develop a higher tolerance for this sort of thing. Maybe you’ve come to normalize it to the point of becoming desensitized. Matt would know.

_Matt._

This is Matt’s world. This alien and foreign world that Foggy occasionally glimpses when it intersects with their world, like a truly twisted version of a Venn diagram.

Their world, Matt and his shared world, has small things like the smell of dusty library books, the truly awful coffee from the court registry, flirting badly with the county record clerks, complaining when PACER fails, and uniformly terrible drinks at Josie’s. That’s where he and Matt, the two _bestest_ avocados in the world, thrive together. In that world is where he can see Matt smile, one that Foggy can hardly remember now.

Accepting _this_ world, this world of grey morals and casual violence—Matt has made accepting it the price of their friendship, already fractured along the lines of Foggy’s uncertainty. He doesn’t know where it’s standing, of where it’s heading. Giving Matt the file on Jessica Jones, in retrospect, has only felt like a move to forestall the inevitable and prolong its demise, with Foggy clinging to the belief that Matt doesn’t belong there, that Matt wouldn’t _want_ to belong there.

But now—

“Foggy,” Karen says, as if she’s reading his mind. “What about Matt?”

Foggy squeezes her hand. “He should be okay. He was with the other two, giving statements to the police. If we go out to look for him right now, it could make matters worse.” Or so he tells himself. It’s hard; concern still outweighs anger, even though the latter is familiar by now when it comes to Matt.

“I know,” she murmurs back, “but—”

She trails off, her eyes settling on the dark silhouette right outside the door, backlit by the red glow outside. Everyone collectively freezes when the door flings open, its hinges flying.

Jessica Jones storms in, half of handcuffs dangling around her wrist. “ _Trish_!”

“Jess!” Trish rushes to Jones, relief palpable.

“You okay?” Jones asks as her friend pulls her into a hug.

“I’m fine—we’re okay,” says Trish. “What’s happening?”

Something in Jones seems to harden, turning rigid at the question. “The station is under attack.”

“Uh, what do you mean, ‘under attack’?” Malcolm asks, air-quoting, “We’re at a _police station_.”

“By _whom_?” asks Trish. “Is it really—“

“The Hand. It’s the Hand,” Colleen says, voice low and knowing, and okay, maybe so things she says are a bit less than reassuring than her habit of traveling with her sword.

Jones doesn’t answer, but that already seems to be a confirmation in itself. “What about Luke?” Claire asks. Claire, who apparently collects all superheroes around the block. “And,” she adds, with a quick glance at Foggy and Karen, “the _other_ friend?”

“They’re both helping the police,” Jones says, “and stalling the attackers. Look, it’s not—“

She’s cut short by gunshots, coming from somewhere outside of the building. They sound too close and too far at the same time, and, no matter how unpleasantly often Foggy gets to hear them lately, still entirely unreal.

Everyone does an admirable job of hiding their flinch at the sounds that seem to reverberate in the air. Jones looks clearly torn between going out there and staying with her friends.

“Go.” Trish presses her forehead against her friend’s once before giving her a push toward the door. “We’ll be fine. Go on, go be a he—”

“Told you _not_ to use that word,” Jones says, obviously trying to look irritated but settling with amused.

Trish lets out a laugh. It’s quick and small, but it’s almost a shock for Foggy to see it, to hear it, a tangible proof that they could all feel something other than fear, even in a moment like this.

As Jones starts toward the door, Colleen does the same. “I’ll go with you," she says. It may have been phrased like a suggestion, but it is clearly anything but.

“She can handle herself better than all of us combined,” Claire reassures when Jones clearly hesitates. “And looks like you need all the help you can get.”

“C’mon, then,” says Jones. With a flick of a hand, she flips over a file cabinet and drags it across to block the doorway after she and Colleen go through it. “No one else comes in or comes out, got that?”

“Got it. Go kick some ass,” says Malcolm, with a thumb up.

There’s a faint smile on Trish Walker’s face still, watching her friend leave.

How do you do it? Foggy wants to ask. How do you send out your friend that you clearly love to her possible death? Is it bearable if your friend has an impossible strength? Is it more palatable if you haven't seen your friend at the death’s door, time and again, wounded and coughing out blood in his body weight, seemingly pulling the city together with his bare-knuckled and scraped hands?

He wants to ask Claire how she does it with Luke. With Colleen. He wants to shake their shoulders and demand it. How do you do it? How do you do it and believe that they would come back to you? Is it just some blind faith? Is it all it takes? Please tell me. Tell me how. Because I don’t know. I never do.

“Well,” says Foggy, trying to fill the silence and a crack in his chest at the thought Matt out there, in the midst of gunshots, “this is a thrilling turn of the event.”

“It _is_ how most horror movies go,” Malcolm says. He thinks for a moment and adds, “And how it usually ends for side characters.” The fact that they’re only side characters in this particular scenario goes unsaid and undisputed.

“And you just had to remind us that, didn’t you?” says Trish.

Malcolm lifts his shoulders, arms spread out, as to say, _Hey_.

“Well, since you have a lot more knowledge of how this works,” says Claire, good-naturedly, “tell us. What do we do now?”

“Right, how would we make it to the end?” asks Karen, gamely playing along.

Malcolm pretends to consider the question. “Usually? I’d say the next logical step is calling the police.”

“I’m seeing a tiny flaw in that logic,” Foggy says. “I mean, the lines are clearly always busy in movies.”

“And cops never arrive on time,” Trish points out.

“Well, hell with the cops, then. Anyone know how to flag down the Avengers?” asks Claire, earning shaky, smattering laughs all around.

And in a typical horror movie fashion, that’s when the ceiling comes down.

Foggy hears Karen scream and instinctively throws himself over her. He holds her tight as the building walls seem to tremble and debris fly all around them.

When the dust settles, he slowly cracks open his eyes. The middle part of the ceiling seems to have caved in. Malcolm is covering Trish and Claire, all huddled against the wall and pushed as far away from the center as possible. And there are now new figures—people, standing still like some stiff stone statues in the middle of the wreckage.

In an absurd moment, he wonders, briefly, if these intruders really were the Avengers, and if so, perhaps he should actually start going to Mass with Matt every week.

But then he sees their faces, and he goes cold from head to toe.

Because it’s Elektra Natchios—looking like she hasn’t aged the day since the college, when she suddenly up and left while stomped all over Matt’s heart, and looking decidedly _not dead_ as she should be—who is standing at the center of the room, surrounded by a few black-clad men— _just fucking say it_ —ninjas. There’s no visible emotion on her face as she surveys the room, holding a wicked-looking sword that gleams amber under the glow of the emergency light.

 _Blood_ , he thinks. It’s blood that’s dripping from the sword, coloring it amber under the purple light.

Her unsettling gaze stops when it tracks over him. And there’s a slow, dawning recognition in that inhumanly still face.

“Franklin,” she says, leisurely and pleased. Something in her seems to come alive. Predatory. There’s vicious curl to her blood red smile. The patent wrongness of it all is unspeakable.

No one moves.

It occurs to Foggy suddenly that, until this moment, he may not have believed Matt.

Matt’s world has never been his. Foggy may stumble upon it once in a while, with cases like the Punisher’s sending them down the path of incoming bullets, but he doesn’t live in it. Matt’s world has super ninjas and old flames who happen to be ninjas returning back from the death. That Matt’s world has not been his.

So he may have not believed it in his heart, not truly, when Matt, agitated and distraught, told him that Elektra, the decidedly dead Elektra, was brought back to life by said crazy ninjas.

 _Matt_ , he thinks, his heart aching for his friend. _Oh,_ _Matt._

Everyone is still frozen.

He takes a step forward. Karen’s hand on his tightens, but he pulls away slowly and takes another step, and then two, putting himself between Matt’s ex-flame and Karen.

“Elektra.” He swallows. By some miracle, his voice does not shake. “Been a while.”

Elektra tilts her head, apparently considering. There’s something perversely childlike about her every gesture that sends a chill down his spine. “It has. Hasn’t it?”

“Yep. I’d say it’s nice to see you again—but, hey, it’s really not.”

She visibly pouts. “Words can hurt, Franklin.”

“Well, you know me. Nothing if not honest, right?”

“That is very true,” she says, nodding almost sagely. “You are. Always honest. And loyal. That’s something Matthew loves so much about you, you know.”

There’s a brittle lump in his throat, in his chest, everywhere that he thinks he can feel. “I do,” he says. “I do know.”

“Speaking of Matthew,” she says, making a show of turning around the room, “Franklin, where is he?”

 _I guess you didn’t see him as you killing-spreed your way in_ , doesn’t seem like the right answer. He can feel, even without seeing, Karen tense behind him. In his periphery, he can also see Claire and Trish, wanting to intervene but the other ninjas are right in the way. Foggy has no plan. No plan here, except to keep Elektra’s focus on himself. Maybe he can buy some time. Maybe—

Maybe he’s finally reached the point of complete and utter mental insolvency, because while he has a good idea exactly how afraid he should be, he still answers, “Well, here’s a thing. Or two, actually. One, I don’t actually know? Two, even if I did, I don’t think I want to tell you.”

“Why not?” Elektra looks genuinely curious, even if not any less murder-y.

“It’s just my guess, since he doesn’t explicitly tell me these things,”— _because you never really wanted to hear it_ , something inside him wants to point out at the most inopportune moment—“but I believe you tried to kill him. Several times. Repeatedly. Like it’s a thing you do whenever you show up. It’s bad enough that you broke his heart so badly back in college that he almost failed Civics. _Civics_. Do you have any idea how impossible that is? So, call me crazy, but I really don’t want you to have another chance at doing any of that to Matt again.”

“I’d never hurt him,” she answers, almost petulant. “He belongs with me.”

Both his hands clinch, hard, into fists. “But you have. And more than likely, you will again. So no, I don’t think I want to tell you where he is.”

He meets her gaze squarely, so he sees it when Elektra’s eyes turn abruptly dark, any hint of petulance withdrawing as suddenly as it’s appeared.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she lifts her sword.

 _Well, I guess this is it,_ Foggy thinks, almost absently, with a strange lack of feeling.

“ _No_ ,” someone says from above, desperate and breathless, “don’t.”

Before Foggy could move, a shape drops down from the hole in the ceiling, landing between him and Elektra.

“Matthew,” says Elektra, eyes terribly, terribly bright.

“Matt,” says Foggy, numbly.

Matt, looking like minutes before collapsing, pulls himself up, standing with his back to Foggy, one arm stretched out to protect him, the other held up to hold off Elektra.

Even from behind, Foggy could see cuts on the side of Matt’s face. He’s bleeding from the head. There’s a deep and terrible strain in the way he holds himself, in the line of his shoulders, the angle of his tilted head.

And yet. And still. His hand covers Foggy’s shoulder in a hard grip, as if to check Foggy is still here, solid and in one piece.

The lump in Foggy’s chest, in his heart, already brittle, breaks. Cracks. Unmendable.

“Elektra,” Matt says, painfully, as if disbelief and despair are warring inside him just to be able to mutter that single name.

There’s a pure, unadulterated happiness in her face, previously unseen. “It _is_ good to see you,” Elektra says, taking a step closer.

Matt takes a step back, pushing Foggy behind him. “Don’t.”

She tilts her head again. “Don’t you want to know why I am here?”

Matt swallows, like it’s the worst case of trick questions. The answer would do no good, but he can’t not ask. “Why are you here? The Hand already has Danny.”

“Alexandra wanted me to kill you. Kill all of you.” Matt visibly stiffens, until Elektra follows with: “So I killed her. The Hand answers to me now.”

In the stunned silence, Elektra smiles her childish smile at Matt. “Everlasting life, Matthew. That’s what the Hand has been promised. And it’s right within my grasp. It’s ours to take.”

Matt is already shaking his head. “No. No, Elektra.”

“With this, we can bring back the dead,” she says as if Matt hasn’t spoken. Her eyes are feverish bright. “There’s nothing we can’t do. We can bring Stick back.”

“No,” says Matt, voice fraying around the edges, “you killed him, Elektra. You killed Stick. There’s no coming back from that.”

“ _I_ did. _I_ have,” she says, a challenge in her voice.

Matt doesn’t answer. His _Did you?_ hangs in the air, unasked.

Elektra watches Matt, doesn’t look away from him for a single second. Foggy sees the exact moment when Matt’s question is heard, because her eyes turn black, as if the light itself has been extinguished.

At the next moment, she swivels around Matt, fast—so fast that Foggy could barely see her move, so fast that Matt turns with her and loses his grip—and slides right next to Foggy, her sword raised at his throat.

“ _No_ ,” Karen shouts. Matt moves.

“Ah-ah,” says Elektra, and Foggy feel the edge of the sword digging into his neck, breaking the skin. Matt stops on his tracks as if he’s been punched in his gut. “I can—and I will, slice him right through.”

Matt doesn’t move. There’s clear, terrifying panic in his unseeing eyes. He doesn’t look like he can even breathe.

“It won’t hurt,” she coos at Foggy, syrupy, sickeningly sweet. The sword at his throat travels down to his chest and now Foggy feels like he can’t breathe either. “Just a quick in and out through his heart. He won’t feel a thing, Matthew. Not until we bring him right back, that is. Foggy, lovely Foggy, your best friend in the world. You don’t him to stay dead, do you?”

“Please,” says Matt, in a voice that Foggy’s never heard him use. Like he’s being dragged in jagged pieces of glass. Like the words are torn out of him. “Please Elektra. Let him go. I’ll do—whatever you want. I’ll go with you. Just—”

“No,” someone says. Foggy doesn’t realize until a second later it’s his own voice. _He’s my best friend_ , Foggy thinks, wildly and blindly. _You can’t. He can’t—_ “No. Don’t you touch him. And don’t you dare, Matt.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Matt, frantic. “It will be fine, Foggy. Elektra, just _—_ just let him go. There’s no need. I’ll do it—whatever it is. We can go to the Hand together, if you want. Just let him go. _Please_.”

Foggy’s eyes start to well up. _Fuck._ “Don't. Don’t you _fucking dare,_ Matt.”

Matt’s eyes search aimlessly at Foggy’s direction. “I can’t,” he says, sounding broken. “Please.”

“Yes,” says Elektra, “yes, you can.”

“Hey, lady,” Luke Cage says. “The man said no. How about you stop asking.”

Matt’s head snaps up and he rolls out of the way just as Cage bulldozes through the wall next to him, flinging a piece of rubble at Elektra. When she stumbles, Matt tackles Foggy into ground. As Foggy goes down, he sees Jessica Jones, taking down one of the ninjas, and Colleen battling the other.

Cage throws another boulder, which Elektra daftly avoids. Her kick at his chest lands, hard, sending him flying. She chases after him, brandishing not one but two swords, but Matt’s right there, blocking her on her path.

Elektra stops and flashes a smile. And lunges. Matt’s already moved away, swift and graceful, and kicks one of her swords away.

And it’s on.

Here’s the thing _—_ Foggy has never seen Matt in action.

He hasn’t seen him move, not like this, not really. He’s seen Daredevil from footages, from far away. He’s seen Matt punching the crap out of sandbags. This is different. The two of them move like nothing Foggy has ever seen.

But Matt’s tired and bleeding, and even when Cage and Jones jump into the fray after making neat piles of ninja bodies, Elektra shows no sign of slowing down. It’s nothing that Foggy could understand. Maybe it’s because she’s already dead. Whichever it is, Matt needs an edge. He needs—

Foggy pauses, thinking. Then he crawls over to the desk he’s used all afternoon, where his deposition notes seem somehow miraculously intact, and rounds it to reach the panel behind it.

“Matt,” he says, in a low murmur he knows that Matt could hear, “ _now_.”

Matt tilts his head. The second it's understood, Foggy pulls down the lever.

In the pitch-black darkness that ensues, there are continuing sounds of fights, things breaking, grunts, shouts, and swear words that are distinctly from Jones.  Foggy stays clear well out of all of it until it’s quiet again and pulls up the lever.

When the purple lights come back on again, on a clear circle of destruction at the center of the office is Matt, collapsed on the ground. Next to him, Jones and Cage pull themselves up with clear groans. Elektra is nowhere to be seen. 

They rush to Matt’s side. “Are you okay?” Karen asks Matt, and then at Claire. “Is he okay?”

“Matt,” says Claire, helping him sit up. “Matt, let me see. What did you to do yourself?”

“She’s gone,” says Matt, pressing into his eyes with heels of his hands." She's _gone_."

“Matt,” says Foggy, shaking him a little. “ _Matt_.”

That snaps Matt out it. His unfocused eyes, desperately searching for Foggy, stop just left of his face. “Foggy. _Foggy_ , are you okay?” he asks urgently.

It’s funny that, of all the far-fetched, ridiculous movie crap that has happened tonight, this is that one thing that makes Foggy speechless. “Am—am _I_ okay? I’m not the one who’s almost been stabbed to death by his dead ex, Matt. What about _you_?”

“To be fair,” Malcolm says, offhandedly from somewhere behind them, “she also tried to stab you, too. The chick’s got _issues_.”

“Man, you don’t know the half of it,” says Cage.

“It’s okay, it’s all right,” says Karen, holding Matt up to a sitting position. “Foggy’s okay, Matt. And you’re going to be okay.”

“Matt,” Claire berates, looking over Matt’s cuts, “You have zero—no, _negative_ sense of self-preservation.”

Matt cracks up, just a little. “I don’t think it’s a thing, Claire.”

“With you, it is,” Claire says, pointedly.

“I can’t say I disagree,” says Foggy.

“Oh, you’re no better, either,” says Claire, entirely unfairly, in Foggy’s opinion.

When Claire declares that Matt is, somehow, unbelievably and astoundingly, still in one piece, they regroup.

“We need to go after them,” says Colleen, anxious. “And get Danny back.”

“Right now?” asks Malcolm. “I mean, no offense, man, but didn’t we all just get our asses kicked?”

“No, Colleen’s right,” says Cage. “Whatever they want to do with Danny, they won’t wait. We need to go get our boy back. Think the Hand will come back again?” he asks Matt.

“Not likely,” Matt answers. “They would’ve sent more if they had more to spare, and they can’t afford not to guard the Midland Circle building. Plus, all the SWATs in the city are probably on their way here now. Here should be safe—safer.”

“Which tells me it’s about the right time us to bounce and get outta here,” says Jones. “Let’s go get the kid.”

“The Hand, Ele—“ Matt pauses, and starts again, “You know they’ll be waiting for us.”

“So what else is new,” says Jones. “Ugh, if I see one more ninja in my life, it’d be one too fucking many.”

Matt raises an eyebrow, and there’s a small quirk of lips that Foggy has seen so rarely these days. “And yet you want to head right into the den of them. Clearly, you care to see some more.”

Jones rolls her eyes. “Let’s fucking go already before I change my mind.”

That settles it surprisingly quickly. Cage and Claire say their goodbyes. So does Jones with Trish and Malcolm.

Foggy looks at Matt talk to Karen. There are things to say, Foggy thinks. Questions to ask. Odds to weigh. All three of them couldn’t take Elektra down. What makes them think they could if they walked right into their base? Cage and Jones may be superhuman, but Matt—he’s all too human.

Instead, Foggy tells him, “So, this is your world.”

Matt closes his eyes. “Foggy. I’m—”

“Don’t. Don’t say it. It doesn’t matter.”

Matt shakes his head. “No, it does. I put you and Karen in this danger. And Elektra, she almost—” he stops, as if speaking it out loud would invite the devil itself.

Foggy was never sure what absolute fear meant, until now. He’d thought he knew, that he'd came close to understanding it many times, but he saw it for the first time, tonight, in Matt. When he thought he was about to lose Foggy.

When Foggy thought he was about to lose Matt, right in front of him.

He glances at his deposition notes once more. He may have been selfish—wanting Matt remain in his world, in theirs, not in this other. In this terrible and alien other, where he thought he could never follow into.

Maybe he’s never needed to.

Because it’s already here. It always has been. Lurking unseen, just in the periphery. And Matt, his dorky best friend who is so much of a Catholic that it almost hurts him just to breathe, who adores Thurgood Marshall and can cite every word the judge has written—this is what he faces. Every day. Every hour. Every second. Fighting his demons. Keeping these wolves at heel.

“You’re not giving up on her, are you?” Foggy asks, knowing the answer.

Matt looks stricken, even more so than when he was taking a spectacular twist kick from Elektra. “Foggy.”

“I know. If you could let her go, that won’t be you, would it?”

With the lump in his chest still so brittle and broken, Foggy grabs Matt by the rappel of his jacket and pulls him into a hug.

“You go get her back, drag her back, kicking and screaming if you have to. Find this Danny Rand guy. Bring them back—and bring yourself back. You find your way back here, you hear me? Because everything else, it doesn’t matter.”

“You do,” says Matt. "You do. I never told you how much. I—"

And you don't have to again, thinks Foggy. There's no need. Because he believes it. “Well, that’s why I’m telling you to come back safe, you jackass,” says Foggy, hugging him tighter. He's not going to lose him. He won't. This is him, believing that Matt would come back. To have that faith. If that's what it takes.

If that's really all it takes.

“All right," says Matt, without letting go. "All right, Foggy."  There are tears in his voice, and his hand on Foggy’s shoulder warm and solid. It feels like a promise. “I will.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And Matt does, all of them come back safe and sound, Foggy gets to do that deposition, and they all live happily after. :) 
> 
> All kidding aside, while I fully believe that Matt would most definitely be willing to die along with Elektra, there seemed to be very little incentive for him to make it out of there without her, either, and it made me wonder if more development of Matt and Foggy's friendship (and to the same extent, Matt and Karen's) would have given him more of a reason to make it out of there alive. A prompt I read somewhere about Elektra attacking the police station gave me this idea, and this was my little fix-it, happy-ending piece. Thanks for reading!


End file.
